


Rough Around the Edges

by Pandir



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bar fights and bloody noses, Biker AU, Bilbo is a wannabe poet, Gen, M/M, Thorin & Co are a biker gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:02:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo staggered into the night, only lit by the dim signs of the bar and the lights of the road, holding a napkin to his nose to stop the bleeding. To hell with those bikers, such a stubborn and altogether unreasonable lot, always picking fights when they better shouldn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Around the Edges

**Author's Note:**

> [A little scene for a Biker AU Calvin and I came up with.](http://calvindile.tumblr.com/post/38633478654/what-if-biker-au-what-if-the-dwarves-are-a-biker)
> 
>  
> 
> What if the dwarves are a biker gang, Thorin is their leader, and Bilbo a bog-standard bloke who wears sweater vests and involuntarily gets involved in gang wars.  
> What if.
> 
> There's only implied action and it’s a lie. The context is that Thorin and Bilbo got drunk one night and don't remember what happened between them, but the joke is that they didn’t sex that night, they just cuddled.

Bilbo staggered into the night, only lit by the dim signs of the bar and the lights of the road, holding a napkin to his nose to stop the bleeding. His whole face felt hot and swollen, and he was probably sporting one black eye or two, he assumed. He had to look perfectly horrible, good thing that there was absolutely no one in a few miles radius who bothered with a socially acceptable appearance.  
To hell with those bikers, such a stubborn and altogether unreasonable lot, always picking fights when they better shouldn’t.

At a lamp post he stopped to examine his sweater, only to notice that yes, there had been blood dripping from his nose on his favourite striped sweater.

Bloody Gandalf, Bilbo cursed under his breath. He was a writer, a poet - maybe not a successful, but a respectable one, and he had been leading a quiet and peaceful life. And he still would, if not for Gandalf, one of his academic acquaintances, who had thought it an excellent idea to let a group of vandals crash at Bilbo’s apartment. Sometimes he wondered if Gandalf was even a real professor, or if he was just rather good at pretending to be a most unusual one.

He tilted his head back, hoping to keep the blood from spilling on his clothes, and closed his eyes. He quickly regretted doing that, because his head was spinning in a way that made him feel oddly nauseous, and he quickly opened them again.

All in all, he should probably curse himself and the moment where he decided it might be a great idea, fun even, to join a gang of bikers on their hopeless quest to get back what was once theirs. What did he even know about gang wars and the life on the road?  
In the end, there was only he himself to blame for his naivety to think an adventurous life was exactly what he needed right now. He should be sitting at home right now, in his armchair, wondering idly which tea flavour would go best with his freshly baked biscuits - but here he was, spending his evening in bars that smelled of smoke and didn’t serve any tea at all, experiencing first hand how it feels to have a fist connecting with your face.

Bilbo was so caught up in his inner lament that he didn’t notice Thorin’s presence until he spoke.

“Are you hurt?”, he asked, curtly. Bilbo would have very much liked to tell him that the last thing he needed right now was one of them baby-sitting him, but he knew that even though they had gotten him into this terrible situation, he might not have made it out alive if it wasn’t for Thorin and the others, so he held his tongue.

“It’s fine, really”, was the short, snuffled reply.

There was a pause in which Thorin gave Bilbo a long, particularly unconvinced look. And really, Bilbo wasn’t giving a very convincing impression as he tried to press the napkin to his nose without wincing.

“Well, if you must know – no, actually, it hurts like hell”, Bilbo conceded with a grimace, as he saw that Thorin would not take the hint and leave. Maybe it was concern, maybe he was trying to be polite in his own way, but the leader had apparently decided he should assure himself of Bilbo’s well-being. “But I think considering the circumstances, it might have been… worse”, Bilbo added, his tone now more affable. He knew nothing about bar brawls, so maybe his assessment of the situation was exaggerated, but it seemed to him that he had been lucky to make it out alive.

“Maybe”, Thorin agreed. “You weren’t doing half-bad for your first fight.”

It was impossible to not feel better about himself, especially since Thorin never said anything unnecessary, and Bilbo was sure he was incapable of insincerity, so a compliment coming from him actually meant a lot. With a cough, he straightened his posture, wiped his nose a last time and put the napkin into his pocket.

“I did what I could - I mean, what else was I supposed to do”, he said, rambling a little as he always did when he was flattered. Bilbo knew it was silly of him to feel proud that he had landed a few punches himself, but there was this elevating feeling in his chest and his head was light – he assumed it had to be the rush of adrenaline. Or, which was just as possible, someone had hit him too hard on the head.

“You could have run off”, Thorin said and, judging from the tone in his voice, that was what he’d expected him to do. “It certainly would’ve been wiser.”

Bilbo shrugged and made a vague noise of agreement, still unsure how to handle this sudden amount of positive attention. It didn’t exactly help that things had been awkward between them ever since their rather questionable start and Thorin had handled this awkwardness by mostly avoiding any intimacy.  
But really, everything was odd about this. To think that he of all people would be standing here, in the middle of nowhere after just receiving a good beating, and it actually mattered to him whether this tall, dark bloke in a rather outrageous fur-collared leather jacket regarded him with respect - the thought alone made his head swim. Although, no, that had to be due to the slight concussion he was suffering from.

Then there was Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, holding him up with a tight grip and keeping him from swaying. “Careful”, he said.

“Seems I’m a bit wobbly on my legs today”, Bilbo observed with a short, rather sheepish laugh. Definitely some sort of a concussion, he concluded, which would explain the odd light-headedness.

“Then we should get you a glass of something strong to get you back on track.”  
Thorin’s arm was around Bilbo’s shoulders now, so he could make sure the younger man would make it back to the bar. With a sigh, Bilbo gave in and let himself be dragged along. It wasn’t the first time that he had the impression that he was being mothered, in an oddly rough and terse way, but there was no sense in arguing about it now. To be honest, he didn’t even mind that much.

“I think I should probably just go to bed”, Bilbo voiced his concern, and when there wasn’t any reaction, he added: “Trust me, you don’t want to find out what might happen if I consume anything alcoholic now, I’m pretty sure of that wouldn’t exactly be a brilliant idea.”  
There was no answer, except for an ambiguous grumbling noise, which confirmed Bilbo’s suspicion that Thorin was even worse than him when it came to dealing with that one night when they’d both woken up in the same bed, with no coherent memory of the previous evening - yet it didn’t take a genius to piece the evidence together. Either that or he was always that tense and stiff around people when it came to the more gentle kind of body contact.

“Just get me upstairs.” Bilbo gave the gang leader a pat on the front of his jacket. “And please”, he said pre-emptively, “don’t carry me.”  
You never knew with Thorin, who had very strict ideas of how certain things had to be done, but judging from his huff, he thought of Bilbo was being ridiculous.

The leathery smell of his jacket mingled with the distinct smell of cold smoke wasn’t altogether bad, Bilbo noticed as they went up the stairs, and although Thorin’s grip was a bit too strong to be comfortable, at least Bilbo knew he wouldn’t let him fall, which was very reassuring right now.

Maybe, he mused, a bloody nose was a small price to finally break the tension.


End file.
